Ecstatic Observer

Shift perspective to the perspective of a 5 year old. The perspective of a perceptive 5 year old who knows how to fly. Not like a superhero. No fist punching through the air. More like floating. 2-3 feet off the ground, max. 5 year old forced perspective on high alert.
Shift perspective.

Pink flamingos bending into pink flowers, popping out of dull drippy fog.
Shadows sharp at a particular time of year, month, day, hour, minute, second.

Flit on flattened sock. One. Sock. It’s so so so so so small. Pastel and flat af.
Music through backyards, garage doors, window panes, shower curtains.
3 second warning on burnt garlic slices slicing deep into thin skin all up in my nostrils.
Heart shaped anything all the time no matter what, and in that genre of stuff and things are ghostly shapes, bags, cloth, trees scraping buildings trees scraping other trees.

My font. Let me take a second to swoon.
My. Font.

Years ago, in San Francisco, at a bus stop near by the deli where I worked, there
(I SWEAR HAND TO GODS AND STUFF), a pile of oreo cookies with no cream in them, a dead ant looking molehill of epic fucking disgustingness. On second thought, there was cream. Closer inspection revealed missed cream between foul savage desperate teeth scrapes. Right next to this monument to addiction and gluttony was a garbage can.
The blue black oreo package wasn’t in that garbage can. The package was flying around close to the ground with pigeon feathers, leaves, dead skin cells, dust, sand from the beach, in the low swirling wind round my ankles goddamnitall it was gross.

When I was a young woman, in a different time, and different part of San Francisco; a dirt covered alley man wheeled out of the green black dark to offer me a single red rose.
I accepted.

“Give me my rose and my glove.”

People will say I’m in love.

Floating and throwing the world around me a wild side eye shielded by measured caution. The heartbreak. The light. The ecstasy is almost unbearable. The way the light breaks my heart. A nerdy ruckus between lifelong teenage friends, their tumbling laughs, catching my breath.

Leave the big stuff to someone else. The epic themes and the politics to the adults. My bag is observing life. Sometimes I rant and most of the time I rave about all the things. Capitalism, government, sexism, money, injustice all make me go all CAPS irl.
The Joy.
The best feeling I get from writing is in the things that mean the littlest to the most.

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